Conan Direct

Years bled into decades. He sailed the Vilayet Sea as a pirate, his name a curse on the lips of Turanian merchants. He led mercenaries into the burning sands of Stygia, where ancient mummies stirred in tombs of green jade. He saw empires rise on blood and fall to rot, but he remained unchanged—a bronze-skinned giant who laughed at fate and spat at the gods.

Conan did not tremble. He saw the cruelty of the "civilized" sorcerer and the dignity of the suffering beast. With a single stroke of his blade, he ended the god’s torment, watching as the tower crumbled into dust. It was his first lesson: in a world of magic and treachery, only the steel in one's hand and the will in one's heart could be trusted. Years bled into decades

Conan turned to see an old crone emerging from the shadows of a lightning-scarred oak. Her skin was like parched parchment, and her eyes held the milky glaze of the blind. He saw empires rise on blood and fall